


how does it feel like i already know you?

by skvadern



Series: and i know you feel good [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, POV Outsider, Soulmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25792195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skvadern/pseuds/skvadern
Summary: Zolf sighs deeply. “Is there a compelling reason why, um, I shouldn’t shove this trident up your bum?” he asks.In another world, Oscar Wilde's introduction to the London Rangers goes a little differently.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Series: and i know you feel good [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875643
Comments: 17
Kudos: 115





	how does it feel like i already know you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oscarlovesthesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscarlovesthesea/gifts).



> all thanks go to the when in rome discord, esp oscar, that one mcu writer who wrote a brilliant soulmate au series that hooked me when i was a lil baby writer, and also to whoever does the rqg transcripts, even if i did take a few liberties. in this au different species have different 'styles' of soulmarks - full list of what species gets what in the end note.  
> title from know you by be steadwell

Hamid’s fairly sure he should be panicking. It would be the reasonable thing to do, in this situation. His apartment door, the door he most certainly _did_ lock, is open, and goodness only knows what is behind the threshold, or what he’s been left with.

On the other hand, after the day he’s had, a burglary really doesn’t rank high on Hamid’s List Of Terrifying Things. Maybe if he’d had a few days to recover, he’d be able to muster some worry, but right now it’s all he can do to stutter through a call of “He- hello?”

Admittedly, when an unfamiliar, cultured voice replies “Oh, hello!”, he’s a bit taken aback. In fairness, he hadn’t expected a burglar to be so… _forthright_.

When he steps into his apartment and sees the human lounging in his favourite chair, Hamid does reconsider his initial assessment. Not that he knows much about criminals, beyond his recent experience in Other London and, of course, Sasha, but he’s pretty sure most burglars don’t show up quite so well-dressed. Certainly, a burglar probably wouldn’t be so _memorably_ dressed. And even the boldest thief in London wouldn’t stop to pour themselves a drink, surely?

“Oh, hello!” Bertie echoes cheerily, stepping into the living room alongside Hamid, and as always, Hamid can’t help relaxing a little when he has the hulking human standing next to him. Zolf follows them in, coming to stand on Hamid’s other side, and Sasha conspicuously doesn’t. With that, the last of Hamid’s faint nervousness dissipates. He might not be much of a threat on his own, but with the backing of these three very dangerous people, he’s unlikely to be harmed by one human.

The stranger replies to Bertie’s “Oh, hello!” with his own, and a very unsubtle flicker of eyes up and down Bertie’s armoured form. Reeling a little from just how _strange_ his life has become, Hamid notices Zolf unholstering his trident from his back, and smiles slightly to himself.

“Who on earth are you?” Zolf asks tightly, holding his trident loosely but with definite intent.

Hamid’s looking closely at how the stranger responds to that question, which is the only reason he notices… something. A flicker in the stranger’s calm self-assurance, a widening of the eyes and a slight parting of his – very well-formed, mind – lips. Whatever it is, the reaction is there and gone in moments, replaced by the same self-assured smile.

“I could ask you the same question, I suppose,” he says smoothly – almost too smoothly, Hamid thinks for a second, but dismisses it. He doesn’t really know the man well enough to make a judgment like that, and it’s probably safer not to make assumptions about whatever mad situation he and his new colleagues have found themselves in now.

“ _So_ sorry,” the stranger continues, “I got here a bit early, and thought I’d just, you know, wait it out.” He shoots them what would, in another circumstance, be a winning smile.

Zolf mutters something under his breath and the notepad the stranger is holding bursts into flames. Hamid bites his lip to stifle a giggle.

The stranger flails surprisingly gracefully, managing to keep his smile. “Ooh, hah!” he exclaims, quickly batting the fire out and straightening his waistcoat, returning to his easy sprawl. Oh, Hamid _likes_ this man. He really hopes they aren’t going to have to call the Watch or drown him, or anything horrid like that.

“Fantastic,” the stranger says, those dancing eyes skimming over Zolf. “Fantastic. That’d be… you, Zolf, yes?” The way he says Zolf’s name is interesting, though again, Hamid’s not quite sure what’s caught his interest.

“Who, sorry?” Zolf replies, utterly unimpressed, and the stranger smiles brilliantly back.

“So,” he replies, “That must be… Zolf, and Hamid –“ he tips Hamid a, fair play to him, really _nice_ smile – “And Sir Bertrand.”

“Mmm, _Sir_ Bertrand,” Bertie replies, and Hamid stifles a groan. Oh, no. He really can’t take Bertie anywhere.

Thankfully, the stranger doesn’t seem to be picking up what Bertie’s putting down. Again, it’s odd – there had definitely been some dangerously flirtatious energy directed at Bertie at first, but now it’s like a faucet has been turned off. There’s something almost wistful in the way the stranger is regarding Bertie – a sort of ‘if only I was free to’ – and Hamid can’t help but wonder about it.

“Um,” he speaks up, because really, this person could have at least introduced himself. “Who might you be?”

“Wilde,” the man says, and the name definitely rings a bell – a playwright, maybe? Or maybe a columnist, Hamid’s not entirely sure. “Good to meet you.” He stands gracefully and offers his hand – to Zolf, definitely to Zolf, who gives it a look and ignores him. Wilde withdraws the hand before Bertie can finish reaching for it.

“Pleasure,” Bertie rumbles, and Hamid wonders if he’d be able to find that particular bit of Bertie’s foot that’s sensitive enough to shut him up with minimal application of force. It’s only worked a couple of times before, but it might be worth a shot.

Zolf sighs deeply. “Is there a compelling reason why, um, I shouldn’t shove this trident up your bum?” he asks.

If anything, Wilde looks _delighted_ , his entire focus snapping to Zolf – where, Hamid is starting to realise, it’s mostly rested ever since Zolf first spoke. “Ooh, you wouldn’t want _that_ getting out, would you now? Honestly.”

“Well,” Zolf replies testily, “you’d be dead, so it wouldn’t be going anywhere.” He shifts his grip on the trident again, and Hamid jumps in quickly before his new employer can murder a probably-not-burglar on his property.

“Um, sorry, you appear to be in my apartment,” he starts, trying to copy that particular ‘coldly polite’ smile Saira excels in, and probably not doing nearly as well, “ _uninvited_.”

“I _do_ apologise,” Wilde replies. “I was just hoping to get hold of you, and, well, I though this would be the best place. I mean, you have been staying here most nights, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Hamid replies, before wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have. Certainly, he preferred Wilde’s awfully self-assured smile when it wasn’t directed at him.

“Well, there we go then!” Wile replies. “I thought you might enjoy the company.”

Hamid raises an eyebrow, which he can do quite well. “Next time, it might be nice if you were to wait for an invitation.”

Wilde quite obviously fake-gasps. “I – I do apologise! I did knock!”

He keeps the eyebrow raised. “Not quite the same thing, is it.”

Bobbing his head to concede the point, Wilde moves on. “I suppose not. So! This is all very exciting. I’m noticing you’re all looking a bit worse for wear?”

Before he can catch himself, Hamid’s hands fly to his hair – immaculate, of _course_. “I would dispute that, thank you!”

Wilde gives him a far-too-familiar smile – the sort of ‘oh, I _quite_ understand’ look that Hamid’s not entirely sure he likes from a stranger who’s just broken into his home. “Well, Let me rephrase – not all of you.”

“No, I always look like this,” Zolf says coldly, and again, Wilde’s focus goes _right_ back to Zolf. Something passes over Wilde’s face then, as if he’s steeling himself for something. Then he – for goodness _sake_ , he actually reaches down and pats Zolf on the shoulder.

The effect is immediate. Zolf _yells_ and stumbles back, overbalancing as he clutches just below his ribs. Hamid darts to steady him – no mean feat; as uncharitable as it is to say, dwarves really are quite heavy – and just about manages to keep him from toppling over and help him brace against the wall.

At the corner of his vision, Hamid sees Bertie start forward in shock, but Sasha somehow gets there first. He could have sworn she was still in the corridor, but she manages to appear behind Wilde, and despite the height difference, press a dagger tight to his throat.

With that threat handled, Hamid turns his attention back to Zolf, who looks shocked but no longer hurt. There’s no obvious injury, on his shoulder or on his side, but it could have been magic – and Hamid’s meant to be the one who keeps an eye on that sort of thing, Gods, if he’s messed up again… “Zolf!” he cries, “what’s wrong? Are you-“

“Fine,” Zolf breathes, his expression cracked further open than Hamid has ever seen it. “I’m… I’m okay, Hamid.” He leans heavier than Hamid would like on his offered arm, but manages to lever himself up and off the wall. “Sasha,” he calls, voice shaking, “don’t kill him, yeah?”

From where she’s peering over Wilde’s shoulder, Sasha glares mutinously. “What’d he do?” she asks, blade digging in enough that Hamid expects to see blood any second.

“Let him go,” Zolf tells her, and now Hamid sees that his eyes are fixed on Wilde. Wilde, who is looking at Zolf with an utterly blank face and eyes that – are those tears? “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, but, he did though,” Sasha replies sharply.

“Now, really,” Bertie starts, and Wilde opens his mouth, and then Hamid glances at Zolf’s side again and notices how he’s resting his hand against it. Gently, reverently – and Hamid remembers the sewer tunnel, and in his minds eye he looks past the disgust and the smell and focusses on the twisted black knot he’d seen just under Zolf’s ribcage, beneath his heart. It had been beautiful, Zolf’s soulmark, intricate and somehow calligraphic, like it had been inked into his skin with a quill.

“Oh!” he exclaims, hitting a properly undignified octave and not caring in the slightest, “oh, _Zolf!_ ”

Zolf glances at him, still looking shellshocked, and Hamid doesn’t blame him in the slightest. He nods slowly, and Hamid claps his hands to his mouth in delight. Oh, no wonder Wilde’s behaviour had seemed so strange. No wonder he’d offered his hand to Zolf, no wonder he’d touched him like that.

Oh, this is _wonderful!_ Not the best timing, of course, but Hamid’s sure they can work something out. Love always finds a way, after all.

“The fuck, Hamid?” Sasha asks – she’s lessened the pressure of the dagger, but it’s still resting on Wilde’s throat.

Hamid opens his mouth, and then closes it, unsure what Zolf wants said right now. Wilde beats him to it.

“He’s-” he starts, then breaks off, that smooth voice gone harsh and cracked. With a deep, steadying breath, he speaks again. “He’s my soulmate.”

“Oh!” Sasha says blankly. Then, “Hey, Zolf, congrats!” For all that her smile is bright and genuine, Hamid notices she hasn’t yet removed the dagger from Wilde’s throat.

“He _is?_ ” Bertie exclaims, with that particular expression that Hamid’s learned to dread. It’s a perfect harbinger of Bertie opening his mouth and saying something particularly horrifying – probably an insult to Zolf’s looks, or something off-colour about their respective species.

Wilde and Zolf are still staring at each other, both looking like they’ve been slapped round the face, and Hamid makes a quick decision. After all, hadn’t Zolf hired him for damage control?

“Bertie, Sasha!” he says brightly, clapping his hands together, “I’ve just remembered this really excellent pub not five minutes walk from here. They’ve got good food, even a nice selection of wines. How about we go have some drinks? I’ll get them in.”

“A capital idea!” Bertie booms, immediately distracted by the prospect of a free drink. Hamid shakes his head a little at how predictable his friend is.

“Hang on,” Sasha interjects – she _still_ hasn’t let go of Wilde, not that he appears to care much – “we’re not just gonna leave Zolf with this guy, are we? I don’t care if they’re soulmates, you don’t just trust someone like that.” Yet again, Hamid feels one of those washes of worried care for Sasha; what kind of life must she have led, if she seriously thinks Zolf’s own soul is a danger to him?

“S’alright, Sasha,” Zolf answers her before Hamid can. “We’ll be fine.” He hasn’t looked away from Wilde, but he pulls what he probably thinks is an encouraging smile in Sasha’s general direction.

Sasha deliberates for a moment, and then she sighs deeply and pulls the dagger away from Wilde’s neck. Zolf’s shoulders immediately slump a little, while for his part Wilde barely even straightens.

Hamid gives Zolf’s shoulder a little squeeze, thought he doubts the dwarf even feels it, and follows Bertie out the apartment. Sasha slips out after him a moment later, and Hamid shuts the door with a decisive click.

“’S all this about, with the pub?” Sasha asks sharply as they follow Bertie back down the stairs.

“I thought they could do with a bit of privacy,” Hamid says tactfully.

“We could have gone in the next room,” Sasha mutters, but trots along willingly enough. She’s probably still hungry, and Hamid will be very happy to buy her another good meal. Something tells him they’re going to want to be gone for a while.

~~~~~

Bertie’s footsteps – Hamid’s too light and Sasha’s too quiet for him to hear them – recede, and Zolf is wonderfully, horribly alone with the man who, yep, definitely his soulmate.

 _Fuck_.

Wilde – Poseidon take him, he doesn’t even know the man’s first name – is still staring at him, looking just as shocked as Zolf feels. He’s also got a skinny little trickle of blood running down his neck, a gift from Sasha’s daggers. Seeing it sets of something dark and roiling in Zolf’s gut, and he quashes it mercilessly – not Sasha’s fault, she’s had a hell of a life, it’s no wonder she’s got the defensive instincts to match.

Gods, his mam hadn’t been exaggerating. Hell of a thing, this soulmate business. Leagues more intense than he’d ever imagined.

“Sit down,” he croaks, and Wilde jolts like he’s been slapped. He collapses heavily back into one of Hamid’s fancy armchairs, no more easy, artless sprawling..

It takes far too long for Zolf to cross the room and reach where Wilde is slumped in the chair. Both of them shudder a little when he reaches up and rests his hand on Wilde’s throat – his skin is warm, ridiculously soft, and Zolf can feel the tendons beneath it pull taut.

Why Poseidon decides to take pity now, Zolf isn’t entirely sure, but he can feel the faint tang of salt on his lips, the electric crackle of gifted power, and the scratch on Wilde’s throat closes as if it was never there. Sending a silent but fervent prayer, Zolf lets his hand fall away, but not before he swipes his thumb over the remaining blood to clean it off Wilde’s pale skin.

His palm feels cold, when it’s away from Wilde’s neck again. Like a magnet, it moves to press against his side again, and Wilde’s eyes follow it.

“It doesn’t still hurt, does it?” Wilde asks cautiously, eyes fixed on where Zolf’s soulmark sits, tucked under his ribcage.

Zolf shakes his head, unable to keep from touching the tender place under his ribcage. “Only hurt for a moment. It’s just… warm, now.”

“I didn’t think it would hurt you,” Wilde murmurs, looking honestly pained. “I- I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t really, did you,” Zolf says, but he’s not able to put any bite into it. “Why the fuck didn’t you _say_ something?”

A sigh from Wilde. “And what was I supposed to say? ‘Pardon me, strange mercenary whose friend’s home I’ve just broken into, but can I touch you for a second? I just want to check whether or not you’re my soulmate.’ Considering you’d just threatened to kill me, I’m sure that would have gone down a treat.”

He’s probably right, the arse, but Zolf is damned if he’s going to concede the point. They fall into silence again, and Zolf keeps himself occupied by staring at Wilde.

He’s just as gorgeous up close as he was halfway across the room – soft, floppy hair that he’s really making work, a strong, curved nose, brilliant piercing eyes. His features are eclectic, probably wouldn’t be half as lovely in combination if they weren’t animated by this man, and yet on him they’re stunning. Zolf can’t look away.

“Can I see it?” Wilde asks suddenly, leaning forward just a little in his chair. “Your soulmark. _Our_ soulmark, I suppose.”

Automatically, from his gut, Zolf wants to refuse. It’s a _soulmark_ , the most private of private things – showing it as a function of living your life, just because you took your shirt off or rolled up your trousers or something, is one thing. Revealing it on purpose, just to show it… that’s a lot. That’s more than a lot.

But this is Wilde. This is his _soulmate_. If anyone deserves to see the mark, it’s the man who put it on him.

“On two conditions,” Zolf says, glad to hear his voice isn’t trembling anymore. Wilde blinks at him for a moment, then nods.

“One, you show me my mark. Not that I don’t believe you or nothing, I just want to see it.” Wilde nods eagerly enough to that, though he’s obviously waiting for the second condition.

“And two,” Zolf continues, “you actually tell me your full name, you dodgy bastard.”

That shocks a laugh from Wilde – a real one, not those little titters he was obviously putting on while they were talking. “Alright,” he says, smiling in a way that makes him look even more handsome than Zolf thought he could.

Gods above and below, he’s so fucked.

Wilde extends a slender, elegant hand. “Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde,” he says, “at your service.” When Zolf takes it, his fingers feeling huge and clumsy, Wilde- no, Oscar, Oscar turns his hand over and brushes a kiss, feather-light, over his knuckles.

Zolf feels his cheeks flame, glad that half of them are hidden under a beard. “You don’t have to woo me,” he grits out. “I’m not fancy like that. In case you were, I don’t know, expecting that.”

“You might not be fancy like that,” Oscar replies, his eyes dancing in a way that just should _not_ suit him so well, “but I don’t see a reason I shouldn’t woo you nevertheless.” Not even giving Zolf a moment to work through that, the flashy nbastard proceeds to twist and bare that lovely, pale neck, scooping up a hank of his hair and presenting the side of his head to Zolf.

And there they are. His words, his blocky, untidy handwriting scrawled in black under Oscar’s hairline, curving up to his ear. Before he knows he’s doing it, Zolf is reaching out to run his finger over them – slightly raised, just enough that he can feel it. His words, _Who on Earth are you?_ , pressed into Oscar’s skin since the moment the man was born.

Zolf can feel his throat getting tight, and he clears it sharply. “I-“ he starts, and then stops. What in the Gods’ names is there to say?

It takes him a good minute to pull his finger away from them, and as he goes he notices the goosebumps risen all down Wilde’s neck. The man who holds a piece of Zolf’s soul is just a man, then, all flesh and bone and blood just like Zolf is. The thought is horrifying and wonderful at the same time. 

With hands that only shake a bit, Zolf hikes up his armour and the shirt underneath, until the still-warm spot under his ribcage is bared. He looks down, seeing it for the first time just like Oscar is, and can’t bite back his gasp.

After all these years, Zolf knows the curving, feathered swirls of his soulmark better than the back of his hand. But he only knows it black and stark against his pale chest, not… not this.

It’s a twisting, dappled explosion of colour – deep crimson, burnt orange, golden yellow, a thousand shades of green from emerald to a deep almost-black, brilliant against Zolf’s fair skin. Like flying over a forest as the leaves turn, Zolf thinks, dizzy with the beauty of it.

Oscar gasps, and chokes. His eyes overspill just a bit, and he reaches a shaking hand to touch it. When his fingers make contact, a jolt of heat runs through Zolf, like every capillary in his body is boiling just for a moment.

It’s _intoxicating_. Feels like sailing through a hurricane.

Without letting himself think about it, Zolf’s hand comes up to trap Oscar’s against his skin, pressing it there. That close, Oscar must be able to feel the speed Zolf’s breathing at, maybe even the pounding of his heart. Where his fingers settle at Oscar’s wrist, Zolf could swear he feels Oscar’s pulse, sprinting like a hare.

“It’s beautiful,” Oscar breathes, and Zolf laughs, hard and heady, feeling as drunk as the afternoon in Hamid’s dad’s bank.

“Hah, you’re an arrogant one, aren’t you?”

“Darling,” Oscar returns, smiling wickedly, “It’s not arrogance if I can back it up.”

“Am I gonna have my hands full with you?” Zolf asks – it’s meant to be a rhetorical question, but Oscar nods earnestly anyway.

“I promise you’ll enjoy it,” Oscar replies, and Zolf sighs heavily. On the one hand, there is obviously _something_ up with this man – he doesn’t even know why he broke into Hamid’s flat yet, or why he knew Zolf’s party’s names. For al he knows, this man is a particularly romantic assassin.

But if Zolf can trust bloody _Poseidon_ , he’s sure he can trust whatever mysterious power matches souls to each other. Whoever the hell Oscar Wilde is, he’s Zolf’s now. The rest, they’ll work out.

“For my part,” Oscar says, taking Zolf’s other hand in his free one, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles, “I’ll try not to have _too_ much fun.”

Gods preserve him, Zolf can’t help but smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> note: soulmates can be platonic or romantic. different species have some different norms/expectations about how important soulmates are/what role they play in your life, but all species agree that your soulmate is Important to some degree
> 
> humans - the first words your soulmate speaks to you is tattooed on your skin, from the moment of their/your birth (whichever comes first).  
> dwarves - born with a blackwork tattoo, that fill in with colour when you touch your soulmate for the first time.  
> halflings - a magical loop of thread around your finger manifests when your soulmate is born, and the other end is attached to your soulmate's finger. only you can see this thread, and there's a cultural taboo against following the string instead of allowing your soulmate to come to you.  
> orcs - a bright explosion of light across your skin when you touch your soulmate for the first time, that leaves a faintly-glowing and permanent mark.  
> goblins - you see in black and white until you meet your soulmate's eyes, and then gain colour vision.


End file.
